


A Disproportionate Number of Red Pants

by ivyhopegirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boredom, Gen, Military, Red Pants, Red Pants Monday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyhopegirl/pseuds/ivyhopegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's bored, so he invades John's dresser. A discussion of a certain color of pants results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Disproportionate Number of Red Pants

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse any and all grammar mistakes or Americanisms. Comments would be greatly appreciated (cue author looking hopeful).

     "Sherlock. Why are all my clothes in different places?”  
     “I was bored, John.”  
     John sighed. Boredom was somewhat more unpredictable in 221B Baker Street than in the average British flat. For that matter, it was more likely to get them arrested as well. “Where should I look for my socks?”  
     “Follow the sock index.”  
     The duh went unstated. Apparently, John was just that much of an idiot that a clucking noise would suffice.  
     “You’re forgetting that I don’t actually know how your sock index works, Sherlock.”  
     “Minor detail,” Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. “Now don’t interrupt me. I believe this cell is finally near the end of interphase.”  
     And so, Sherlock was lost to an obscure part of cell biology. John walked back up to his room, contemplating murder -- or maybe just rearranging Sherlock’s socks, which would be tantamount to murder in Sherlock’s head.  
     John opened his socks-and-pants drawer to find that Sherlock hadn’t just rearranged his socks. Sherlock had also sorted John’s pants. They were now neatly folded (even the y-fronts, which even neatnik John thought peculiar) and laid out in colour order: white, then red, then grey, then finally black. John contemplated this and decided that, while he appreciated the effort, he didn’t really want Sherlock going through his pants drawer. It violated some code somewhere regarding flatmate behavior.  
     “Yes, what’s with the disproportionate number of red pants, John? I didn’t think you were the type.”  
John spun around and was about to punch Sherlock when Sherlock continued, “I mean, one red pair would be easily explainable, but nine? Not to mention the one orange and the one purple.”  
     “It’s a long story. Please get out of my room.”  
     “Tell me.”  
     “No, Sherlock.”  
     “Ah, it’s something to do with the military.”  
     John closed his eyes. If he was a religious man, he would have prayed for patience.  
     “It’s also a difficult subject, Sherlock. Shove off.”  
     “I’m bored. The wall will suffer if you don’t tell me; surely you can be mildly entertaining,” Sherlock said.  
     “I’ll try not to take insult, shall I?”  
     “Yes, you shall,” Sherlock said, pleased. “Does this mean I get to hear the story?”  
     “Go sit down, I don’t care where, just sit. And shut up a minute.”  
     John leaned against his dresser. Of all his war stories, this was an innocent one, but it was also an untold one. He closed his eyes.  
     “In Afghanistan, one of my mates -- not another doctor, a comrade from... something else I was involved in -- had this quirk.”  
     “What were you involved in?” Sherlock interrupted quickly. John didn’t say anything. “Why won’t you tell me?  
     “I won’t tell you because it’s not your business at the moment, or any other moment in the next week or so. Remind to ask,” John paused, trying to think of the right phrase, “one of my commanding officers something. Now, do you want the story or not?”  
     “You were involved with special ops?”  
     “Story or not?”  
     “Alright, fine,” Sherlock said. “Go on, then.”  
     John took a deep breath, held still for a moment, then opened his mouth.  
    “See, this guy, he always wore brightly coloured pants. He said that, back home, he would wear them when he was expecting a good day, but while serving, he wore them constantly. Never did I see him without fluorescent orange or chartreuse green or some other obnoxiously coloured pants on. He once explained it to me as wanting his last day to be a good day, and, since any day could be his last, he wanted to prepare for every day to be good, hence the bright pants. He was part of a special team, see, that put him in the line of fire over and over again. I swear I saw him every week with some sort of injury. Lacerations, shrapnel, IED wounds, gunshot, infection... This guy got it all. I don’t know how he managed to stay positive. Besides his optimism, his talent for getting wounded, and his brightly colored pants, he was unremarkable.”  
     John stopped again. He was not paying any attention to Sherlock now, lost in a world of sand and bullets. Sherlock, on the other hand, was watching John. He noted the absence in John’s eyes, the appearance of his military posture, and the slight tremor in John’s hand.  
     “He did finally die, this patient and comrade of mine, and he wore red pants that day. Those pants were the brightest red that I’d ever seen, and they were the only thing in sight brighter than his blood. He died while I was working on him, but it was almost stupid of me. I had other people I could have tended to, and he was doomed from the moment I saw him. In the course of trying to treat him, though, that bright red had stuck out. It was the brightest thing in a very dark day.”  
     John swallowed. The air had gotten heavy with tension and John’s regret. He needed to lift that tension, and he said, “So, it’s a way of remembering, I guess. Remembering those who died while I was working, or who I hadn’t gotten to, or whose optimism lasted until the last second. Merely sentiment, as you would say.”  
     Sherlock wouldn’t meet John’s eyes. After a minute, he said, “It would never be merely sentiment for you, John. I suppose I should be sorry I pried, but... You’re good, John. It’s simply another example of that,” Sherlock stopped, unsure of how to help John, then said, “It’s all fine, wouldn’t you say?.”  
     John gave a little half-smile and shake of his head to that. “That story should be told again, then, I guess,” John commented. He nodded. “Could help someone somewhere maybe.”


End file.
